Speaking in Bones Read Free Page B

don’t think so.” Dropping the Ziploc into her pack.
    I extended a hand. “I will call you. One way or another.”

    Strike nodded. Shook. “I’d appreciate that. And your discretion.”
    I must have looked confused.
    “Until an ID is confirmed, no sense getting the media in a twist.”
    “I never grant interviews.” Unless ordered to do so by those higher up the chain of command. I didn’t say that.
    “I apologize. Didn’t need saying. It’s just, I prefer doing what’s best for the family.”
    “Of course.”
    I walked Strike down the hall and watched her disappear into the lobby, all the while debating if and how to share her tale with my boss, Mecklenburg County’s chief medical examiner. I knew the look Tim Larabee would give me. And the questions he’d ask.
    Back at my desk, I rolled Strike’s visit around in my head. Considered possibilities.
    Strike was a mental case. A con artist. A shrewd detective lacking a badge.
    I started with door number three. Strike was a well-meaning though somewhat overzealous websleuth. She’d found the recorder just as she’d claimed. Problems. How had the police failed to spot the thing when they recovered the torso? How had it survived out in the elements for so long?
    Say the girl on the audio actually was Cora Teague. Say Strike was correct, Teague is dead and I have her remains in storage. Had the key chain been hers? Had Teague recorded her thoughts while held in some sort of brutal captivity? Had she been murdered?
    I moved to an alternate explanation. Strike fabricated the whole story. Faked the audio. Problem. The scam would be quickly discovered and Strike revealed as a fraud. Why do it? Because she’s nuts? Because she craves media attention? Doors one and two.
    Or maybe Teague was the scammer and Strike her gullible victim. Perhaps Teague and two male companions staged the interchange on the recording, and somehow led Strike to the key chain. Teague had been in the wind for three and a half years. Perhaps she wanted to stay there. Problem. The tape sounded eerily real. The anguish in that voice would have the opposite effect on anyone who listened.

    Or maybe Teague was working in league with Strike. Same question. Why? What did they hope to accomplish?
    In my line of work, I encounter a range of human motivations as broad as the South China Sea. I’m pretty good at spotting deception. At assessing character. Looking back on that encounter, I’m forced to admit, I hadn’t a clue what to think of Hazel “Lucky” Strike.

I stared at the bright yellow file on my blotter. Larabee would be anxious for word on the mummified corpse.
    I was still staring when my iPhone beeped an incoming message. The flight reminder triggered an unexpected wave of uneasiness.
    Decision.
    Deep breath, then I dialed. As my call winged north, I pictured Ryan and chose words to structure my argument.
    Andrew Ryan, lieutenant-détective, Service des enquêtes sur les crimes contre la personne, Sûreté du Québec. Translation: Ryan works homicide for the Quebec Provincial Police. I am forensic anthropologist for the Bureau du coroner in La Belle Province. For years we have investigated murders together.
    For a period, Ryan and I were also a couple. We both chose to end it. Then he chose to drop off the map. Recently, he’d chosen to return from exile and propose marriage. Months down the road, my mind was still too boggled to deal.
    I pictured Ryan’s face. No longer young, but the crags and furrows in all the right places. The sandy hair and electric blue eyes. Eyes that would now show disappointment.

    I grinned, despite my apprehension over the upcoming conversation. Ryan had that effect on me. I really did miss him.
    Ryan answered, sounding cheerful as a balloon on a string. “Madame. I have reserved a prime table for two at Milos. And organized a full range of postprandial activities. Also for two.”
    “Ryan—”
    “ ‘Postprandial’ means after supper. Said